


Cracked Shell

by Dragoneisha



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Clover/Pretty Much Every Felt Member, Fire, Gamification of Laughter, Gang Violence, Gangs, Head Injury, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intermission (Homestuck), M/M, Mildly Dubious Tickling Consent, Mob Dynamics, Multi, Polyamory, Slapstick, Tickling, yeah.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/pseuds/Dragoneisha
Summary: The game is afoot.Slick, Hearts, and Clubs like to play a game - a game of laughter. Not theirs, of course. They take plenty of delight in themselves.No, they want Droog's, and they'll do nearly anything to pull it out of him.Also, Clover is there.





	1. "Four" Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToSeeStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToSeeStars/gifts).



> hello, toseestars.
> 
> i see that you like the intermission.

He honestly thought Spades would be a mite bit angrier about all this. A man with his general menace shouldn’t be grinning like a damn goof through three layers of head-wound blood.

The fire licking at his heels isn’t Clover’s fault. Matchsticks is busy being stabbed or something along those lines. (Oooh, lines like fire lines, with everyone handing buckets to everyone else. Funny and upsetting to trolls. A lovely combo!) Now, the knife embedded a half-inch into the plating of Spades’s forehead is. It’s rather unsettling to see that grisly crack in the shell branching off from the wound - or at least, he gets the feeling it is from Crowbar, who winces away from the sight ever so slightly. Not a lot shakes him, so it’s probably pretty gross! Clover can’t really tell. He’s not that worried about it - Slick’s laughing, so he’s fine. That’s the thing, though. That’s the kicker. Considering that Spades Slick was what Clover would affectionately call a few sparks short of a shotgun blast, he expected a lot more rage, but Spades is delighted.

He’s got goo-goo eyes, even sprawled out on the rumpled carpet like someone tried to hide the stains with a second, much more stabhappy rug, and it takes Clover a minute to detect why. He has to smell the perfume of the air - that is, take in the scene, the feel of the atmosphere. He’s too empathetic to ignore it anyway.

Droog is snickering.

Diamonds Droog, Mr. I Don’t Have Teeth Except To Bite You With, Diamonds “rumored to have had his facial muscles tightened so he couldn’t upturn his lips” Droog, just let out a soft little snort, the very end of the quietest, strangest chuckle he’s ever seen a man have himself. And Clover has been privy to an awful lot of laughs! He tries to make them, but it doesn’t have much luck around the sterner members of his immediate circle. 

Clover gets it. Spades here has a whole lotta reason to be grinnin’ goofy to himself. Hell, Clover’s smiling too.

“What’s that look for,” Crowbar asks, quiet behind their little watch-corner, not willing to go out without backup or a plan. What a clever man he is. Oooh, Clover has opinions on him (opinions that may very well have him chasing balloons and catching rainbows, but that’s his business.) “It’s a bit of a serious situation, so if you could take it seriously -”

“No, Droog is laughing, look,” he whispers, hushed, in the manner one might put on to talk to a baby bird. 

Crowbar blinks, and takes his chances peering around the corner again. Droog’s just stopped his personal huffs that for any other man might be mistaken as a coughing fit, and he leans down to drag Spades up by the scruff, shaking his head all the while.

“You dumb bitch,” Droog tells him. “Get on your feet. Show’s over with a hit like that. You gonna get mad about someone else cleaning your clock.”

Droog never asks questions - just makes statements that require answers. Spades answers, shaking off that gaga garbage he was sporting earlier. “Yeah, yeah, ge’rroff me,” he grumbles, characteristically, and Droog moves to clear the exit. 

The three remaining - one in the room, two hidden outside - share a moment of silence that is unknowingly shared. To avoid detection, to soak in the strange thing they all just saw - whatever it was, it sure was _something_. Only the crackling of the fire lets them know any time passed at all. 

Pretty good that it did, because in this mansion, that is never a guarantee.

Spades shakes it off, yanks the knife out of his head, and sends a nice little spray of blood all over the carpet. It’s a shame it’ll dry, because that red _really_ goes with Felt green. He brings his radio to his mouth and speaks into it, having to try a few times to hit the talkie-button through the thin veneer of blood that coats his talons.

“Pack up and move out, boys, this one’s a goer,” Spades orders, heading with a very deliberate slowness towards the door Droog left through. “And I got some sour news for ya. You’re gonna have to pucker up, because this shit’s a spoonful of tonic.”

He grins as he leaves the room. Clover sits forward a little, desperate to know whatever this could be.

“Five points,” Spades Slick declares into the radio and as the door shuts on the flaming room, his radio crackles with outcry from his partners. It’s not quite dismayed, but it’s more like the noise Fin makes when Clover sits down at the poker table to play.

Clover leans out, definitely unintentionally shoving his ass in a crouching Crowbar’s face, and oooohs loudly.

“What do you think that was about?” he whispers, vibrating with excitement. What a fun new discovery! What an interesting day! He might very well go charleston with the fire out there he’s so jolly.

Crowbar’s hand finds itself on Clover’s ass, which is very fortunate, and pushes him gently away, which is less so. Not directly unfortunate though, so it just _has_ to happen. _Siiiign._

“I don’t know,” Crowbar tells him, straightening up so far his back pops, “but we better put out this blaze before it takes over the whole east wing.”

Oh, fire, schmire. Crowbar’s no fun when it comes to gossip! Clover gallops right on out and hops up just in time to catch Matchstick’s arm as he steps through the inferno. “Come on,” he tells Crowbar, climbing up the hulking man’s form like one would a tree, “he’s got it!”

“What the fuck did you do here,” Matchsticks asks, starting up his extinguisher before he even finishes the sentence. The fwoosh of cool foam-whatever coating absolutely everything in the room, except Clover, is as comforting as it is relaxing. “Is this fucking napalm?”

“No,” says Clover, at the same time Crowbar says, “Yes.”

Crowbar sputters out a thanks to Matchsticks as he wipes flame-retardant foam out of his eyes, tromping tiredly out to go check on the rest of the team, seeing as he’s down one communicator and about a pint of blood from Droog getting a good shot in. The foam goes a little pink with blood where he goes through it. Clover doesn't really like to see that - Stitch’ll do his job, though. Clover’s not worried except maybe a little.

But he’s great at distracting himself! And Matchsticks, who also seems to need it quite badly.

"Everything good with him?" he asks, and Clover is a little struck by his tiredness. Most of the larger Felt end up tired one way or the other, because the silly billies generally take things way too seriously. Matchsticks looks like he got punched in the face anywhere from one to fifty times. Poor dear. He's so lucky to have Clover to cheer him up.

Clover leans over Matchsticks’ shoulder, his feet braced against his back and side. “Who cares about all that! While you get to work, you’ll never believe what I just saw…”


	2. Got It In "Spades"

“Nobody else saw it, so it isn’t gonna count,” Hearts bitches, like he always fucking bitches when Slick is winning. “That’s the rules.”

“Well, my rules are I’m the boss and you do what I fuckin’ say, so how about _those_ rules,” Slick snaps, slapping his hand on the table. Open palm, he’s not quite that mad yet. Fists mean business. Slick isn’t really in the mood for business, funny or otherwise. 

Clubs says some stupid thing that Slick can’t hear over all this fucking bitching. Slick raises his voice to match, because he isn’t about to be outyelled by this dumb fucking lug. He doesn't care that Hearts has four times the lung capacity. He's gonna yell better.

Slick nearly has a knife out when Clubs Deuce shoves his stupid face between them. His stupid face has a stupid smile on it, too, because the guy’s too dumb to be sad. Makes his rosy-ass little cheeks cute as a button, though. 

Clubs bats his nonexistent lashes, and, slowly, Hearts and Slick both stop yelling. They just look at Clubs. Slick feels a quiet need to check under his hat for some kinda goddamn ordinance, because the empty-headed buffoon is definitely dumb enough to blow ‘em all to smithereens and bring the tarmac down on their heads for good measure.

“We could just ask Diamonds,” he suggests, hands flat on the table.

Hearts groans, and Slick’s right there with him. You can't _ask_ Droog if he’s snickered. All that's gonna do is get you a withering look and tip him off that the game's afoot. It's not any fun if Droog knows what's going on - half the delight comes from sneaking around behind his back. 

Hearts is telling Clubs the same, but not in so many words. Slick tunes them out. He's too busy putting another band-aid over the crack in his shell so it doesn't stick up like he's a fucking unicorn.

Now that he thinks about it, being a unicorn wouldn't be so bad. Lotta power in horses. Hooves. And… oh shit! You got a great big stabbing implement right on your head! Damn. That's good. He's gonna give that a little bit more thought later.

“Droog was there,” says Clubs. “He can tell us.”

“But he's the game, Deuce.”

“We just don't tell him it's for the game!”

Spades slumps in his seat, rubbing his temples. One of them aches, a hairline crack through his shell, from when he tripped because of Clover’s juju luck bullshit and got his own knife in his forehead. Now _that’s_ a fucking unicorn. It only went the other way and it'd have been useful, but instead Slick gets a huge headache and blood in his eyes. Soooo much fun.

“He's a smart guy, he's gonna figure it out,” Hearts explains, even moving his massive hands like he's trying to explain. He can't, because he's dumb too, everybody here is stupid stupid dumb. “Diamonds is kinda on the lookout for that shit.”

“We should just be sneakier then,” says Clubs, like it's obvious. It's not obvious. Anyone who can get something by Droog is a force to be reckoned with, which is why Slick can totally do it. “If we’re sneakier, then he won’t know.”

“He won’t know what,” asks Droog, his slim-wristed hands pressing down on either side of Slick, framing him in against the table. Slick almost jerks back, just barely keeping himself half-bent to keep from bumping straight into Droog’s lurking form.

“He won’t know how to get out my fuckin’ way if he knows what’s good for him, that’s what,” Slick snarls, trying to jam his pointy elbow into Droog’s side. Droog squirms weirdly and moves to the side, taking a seat at the other end of the table. Slick just glares at him, leaning back onto the table.

Droog levels a nice, stern gaze over everyone, and Clubs at least has the sense to not say anything. Not even anything non-incriminating, he just keeps his trap shut like it’s been wired that way.

The silence lasts until Hearts, in all his glory, pushes up to his feet and claps Slick on the back hard enough to nearly bowl him over.

“Well,” he says, “this has been fun, but if Slick bleeds out anymore then I gotta deal with it, and I don’t want to. I’m turnin’ in early.”

“Pussy,” Slick grumbles, but Hearts squeezes his shoulder. He doesn’t look back, but all three watch him go, with various levels of interest - Droog, as usual, scraping the bottom of the barrel for it. His attention is like the last dregs of rotgut. It’s probably not very high quality, but fuck if it isn’t potent. And when it _is_ good, it’s _good_.

Clubs squeaks his chair out and hops down, heading after Clubs for a moment. Those fucking… reprobates are probably going to lay in bed together or some gross sappy shit like that. (They didn’t even invite him. God. what losers. He doesn’t need them anyway.)

Clubs turns back and holds up all five of his squat little talons to Slick, which at least makes him blink. Well, if Clubs says he gets the points, he gets the points. Fuck yeah.

What’s that put him at, seventeen? Eighteen, maybe? He wasn’t ever really good at mental math, and if he counts on his talons he’ll look like some primary-schooled dipshit that never stopped sniffing glue. ‘Course, huffing paint was more the rage after he was cloned, but there’s not a need for that shit when you can get drunk and keep your mental faculties instead. 

Fuck, Droog’s staring at him.

He’s been staring for at least a minute and a half. Slick can tell because he’s got his eyes narrowed just slightly, a storm building behind his brow. Their foreheads don’t wrinkle like softbodies’ do, but when the plates start crossing that spells trouble. And Slick’s got his eyes on a solid T-R-O right now.

“Y’want somethin’?” he asks, because the best defense is being ornery, obviously. Or was it something about offense? His head hurts too much to care. 

Droog leans back and sets his heel on the table, crossing one ankle over the other. He says nothing.

Slick growls, deep in his throat, and plants a hand on the table to lean over. “I _said_ , do you fuckin’ _want_ -”

“You’re playing a dangerous game here, Spades,” Droog breathes, lighting a cigarette. His breath just barely disturbs the glow of the lighter. Out of nowhere, Slick feels his hackles raise. “I’d advise you to keep your head in it, but you’re going to ignore my advice anyway, so there’s no real point.”

Shit. does Diamonds know they’re in another round? He figured they’d been pretty sly about it, but he did get knocked pretty hard falling down today, he might’ve said some dumb shit while he was loopy. Slick tried to rack his brains about it, but it just makes his head spin, like Droog spins the ‘rillo in his fingers before he presses it between his teeth. Droog can talk with one in. they all know that. But he prefers the theatrics of taking it out, breathing smoke with his words, like a bad omen. A demon, a dragon maybe. Something cunning and dark and beyond comprehension.

Slick is getting fucking distracted again.

“I know what I’m about,” he says, leaning over. “You can just stuff it if you don’t like my games. It’s not even my game, the other two are just as in on it as I am, and don’t pretend you don’t like it either.”

“I find it humiliating when I have to pull my boss out of a mansion while he’s drooling and bleeding all over himself in the same measure,” Diamonds notes, and he breathes billowing smoke just like Slick knew he would. Slick knows him pretty well by now. He knows all of them. “If you don’t take a little bit more _care_ -”

“A head injury don’t wait for no bastard, boss or no boss, and I _am_ the fuckin’ boss around here, you little -”

“Finish the sentence,” Droog cuts in, and puts his cigarette back in his mouth.

Slick does not.


	3. In the "Clubs"

Twenty isn’t a whole lot of points, CD thinks. He needs to get moving or everyone else is going to get to a bajillion points, especially when he can’t keep track of the numbers very well. He has absolutely no idea where everyone else is, but there’s just no way he can keep up at this rate! A measly little twenty! That’s nothing. That’s nothing at all.

He likes the game, though. He feels like maybe SS and HB think he doesn’t understand the rules, and he doesn’t like that very much. CD knows some things, you know! And this game is one of them!

The game is fun because DD smiles, and CD likes it when DD smiles.

He’s following Droog around at the moment, partially because of the game, and partially because DD asked him to hold something and CD doesn’t want to put it down until DD tells him he can. DD knows best, and when DD tells CD to do something, CD does it. Wow, CD and DD sound a lot the same. CD. DD. CD. DC. CC. 

Oh no, he’s forgotten what he was thinking about.

DD! There he is! He’s stopped at the end of the hall and looking all the way down from his very tall head. Right at CD, which might make his little heart flutter! It doesn’t this time because DD looks a little mad, which CD knows is never good. CD scuttles his nervous way over, in a little wavering trail because this is a little heavy and he doesn’t want to drop whatever it is.

“Are you thinking of something particularly important?” DD asks him.

“Probably not,” says CD, and smiles. He doesn’t have teeth as sharp as the rest of them - sometimes when he gets nervous he grinds them and they’re a little duller because of it - but DD doesn’t tell him not to smile, so he’s probably allowed. Probably. He likes the word probably, it makes it so he doesn’t have to fully commit to an idea yet while he’s still thinking about it.

“Mm, perhaps,” says DD, using another very good word, and then he leans down to urge CD in a direction that is either left or right because CD was not paying attention.

CD takes a moment to look back at what he’s holding. Hm. That sure is a little platter of stuff! There’s some scotch here, which he would like, and then two little glasses, and some cheese. There’s even a little cheese knife, which CD likes an awful lot. He doesn’t know why DD wants to use a cheese knife, but, DD knows best.

DD opens a door and CD trundles inside, moving in anything but a straight line (he can’t keep his balance holding this big platter that way, duh.) He nearly catches his toe on the rug, but he’s pretty good at catching himself now, so he steps over it instead.

The scotch gets taken, and DD folds himself up to sit down in that slow way he always does. CD sets the platter on his knees. DD makes a very strange noise in response to that, but CD is too busy pulling himself up onto one of DD’s stupidly big chairs to respond to is, and by the time he sits down, it’s already slipped his mind. He has more important things to focus on, like talking to DD! That’s always important.

“You could sit closer, you know,” DD says, gesturing to the seat right beside him.

“But I want to look at you,” CD chirps, cheery as ever, swinging his legs where they hang off the edge of the chair. They don’t quite reach the ground, but he’s sure they almost do. He’s not going to look and check - that wastes valuable time!

DD ducks his head, a little, gets that tiny, smug smile that he always tries to hide. It only happens when CD surprises him, and CD just loooooves it, with all the o’s necessary to communicate that! Considering CD usually speaks in a clipped, excited manner, all those o’s sure do carry a lot of weight. Just like CD had been just now, until he put down that big heavy platter. He sure is glad he got to put that down. What was he carrying it for again?

Well, it’s got drinks on it, DD must have wanted him to carry his nighttime tipplers. Sounds just fine to CD, he wasn’t doing anything important, probably. Nothing he can remember, anyway.

“Here,” says DD, pushing a tumbler of something dark and alcoholic into CD’s hand, which CD knows because he drinks it immediately. DD frowns a little. “You should take more care when drinking what’s given to you. It could be poisoned.”

CD smiles up at him. DD is ridiculous sometimes. “You wouldn’t do that,” he says, swinging his legs.

DD gets that same dumb smile again, and CD gasps a little, remembering what he was thinking about. Oh, what’s he at now! Twenty, it must be twenty. 

He sips his drink again, letting it wait on his tongue like DD always likes him to, and then swallows it down with a little hum. It’s good. Nothing like the stuff HB drinks, HB is damn near crazy! It’s still strong - CD shouldn’t have much - but he’s happy to report it tastes good, and he tells DD so.

“How do you know I wouldn’t poison you?”

CD blinks. Is he still on that? 

“I don’t rightly know,” he says, trying out some of the words he heard one of the bigger Felt use, but DD’s eye twitches and he decides not to say rightly anymore. Didn’t really fit well in his mouth, especially not as good as this glass does. It doesn’t even scrape on his teeth like the normal cheap glass. DD has all the most high-quality stuff. CD isn’t a picky fella, but it really is nice sometimes. “I just figure you won’t kill me. Especially not with poison! None of us do poison.”

Oh, he shouldn't have said that - now DD's defensive, his shoulders drawing in and a little forward. The rest of the Crew isn't as perceptive as CD is. They don't see it when the others show off what they're about to do and say. CD always knows, though. It's like a billboard! There's no point to not paying attention to it. 

He really didn't intend to make DD defensive, now it's going to be a whole _thing_. CD doesn't want to have to deal with this. 

“I could do poison.”

“You don’t, though,” says CD, and smiles. This is really good stuff. “If you were going to start, the boss would know, and he'd talk about it.” Slick is a blabbermouth. He doesn't mean to be, but he just talks so much sometimes things get out.

“I don’t run everything through the boss.”

“But you run a lot of things through the boss,” CD points out, crossing his ankles so he’ll stop swinging them. DD doesn’t take him seriously if he swings his legs while he’s talking.

It’s hard to get taken seriously sometimes, CD thinks. The whole Crew is pretty good about it - he knows he isn’t as smart as everyone else all the time, so it’s okay that sometimes they get onto him when he doesn’t get something. HB is the best, though. It’s never hard to understand him at all. 

There are certain things he can do to make them get him a little more. If he doesn’t swing his legs, DD listens closer. Probably because it’s more serious or something! CD doesn’t know, and it may be rude, but he doesn’t really care very much. The choice between being still and getting both of DD’s ears is a toughie, but CD likes to move around. Being still is dumb.

Besides, he forgets when they don’t take him seriously pretty fast. It doesn’t matter much.

DD stares at CD for a long while, a kind of simmering gaze like a pot left to boil off, but the annoyance doesn’t exactly go away. It’s a look CD is used to, so he just looks back and takes another sip.

It’s really good liquor. Like he said, DD has high-quality everything. Tasty! He can feel a little bit of a buzz building, and CD’s okay with getting drunk. He doesn’t remember having anything to do for the rest of the night, so being drunk with DD sounds like a lot of fun. 

He smiles up at DD and starts swinging his legs again. DD still has that look on his face. CD licks his teeth and opens his mouth to talk, but DD goes first, cutting him off.

“How do you know I wouldn’t try to kill you anyway.”

CD chuckles. He’d roll his eyes if that wasn’t so rude. “You don’t have any reason to do that, silly!”

He doesn’t say “you wouldn’t” because he likes DD very much, but there’s always the chance that he would. He doesn’t have the same kind of hold-back that CD and HB and even SS do about really hurting the Crew - or anyone, really. They all mean a whole lot to each other, of course. But DD is weird. Everybody knows that. It just happens to be the kind of weird that means he could hop straight over the edge one day.

But could isn’t would, and CD is pretty sure he won’t, and that’s special in and of itself. DD is a special guy, and to be special to him (because CD knows he is) is a mega-special sort of thing. Not like he’s the apple of his eye or anything, but he knows DD likes him, and that’s way enough.

DD just huffs in the way that means he knows CD’s right and says, “You have the strangest ideas about things,” and by the end of the night, CD has like, twenty-four whole points.


	4. Heart of "Hearts"

“Wait,” chirps Clubs, because Clubs has another thing he has to say. Hearts doesn’t sigh, but Spades does, thunking his head against the wall. Diamonds, just barely, keeps his composure. Hearts can hear his teeth click together.

“Yes,” says Diamonds, not a question.

“Am I detonating it on one, or on the beat after one?”

Hearts nods at the surprisingly important question no one had bothered to clarify yet. Clubs has a real knack for sniffing out shit like that, just because his head works the way most don’t. 

“That literally does not matter,” says Spades, instantly. Hearts figures he’s wrong. But while Hearts has a pretty thick skull, it’s not thick enough to actually _say_ that. Spades is a nice enough boss, as in, he does nice as a boss, but he sure won’t appreciate being told he’s a dumbass.

So Hearts keeps his quiet. Diamonds, charm that he is, doesn’t have that sense of self-preservation.

“The beat after one.” Diamonds clarifies, and Spades smacks his hand on the table, rustling their plans and sending a few papers in the air. The loud noise he’d been searching for ends up being a rather lame muted ruffle, and Hearts predicts instantly that’s going to piss him off even more. 

Spades doesn’t try for a stab, but he does try and kick Diamonds in the shins - a move Diamonds absolutely does not allow, circling around the table and to the other side of Hearts. All this means is that Hearts is going to be the unlucky motherfucker getting stabbed, and he’s the only guy that doesn’t goddamn do anything.

Such is life.

“Knock it off,” he says, even as he’s inspecting his talons and knowing there’s no way in hell these two are going to knock it off. This is going to be a whole thing now. He wanted to go get some lunch, but no, this is going to be a fight, because somebody can’t bear to keep his mouth shut. Prideful shit. No wonder Hearts wants to fuss over him, when he keeps pulling dumb stunts like this often enough you could set your watch by.

Thankfully, Diamonds can handle himself, but Hearts is still gonna have to stop them from killing each other. It’s one of his favorite pastimes, but he figures it’s like playing ball. You don’t want to have to play a full inning on the way to the store. Same with him and having to get between Diamonds and Spades. He’s got the patience for this, which is why none of them are dead, but he doesn’t exactly have it in spades. 

Heheh, in spades. That’s a good one. He should use that sometime or something, but he’ll have to plan it. Improv comedy is one of the many things he’s no goddamn good at.

“So we blow it on the beat after one. And then what am I doing,” Clubs asks, while Spades tries to sneak around Hearts’ back to get to the lanky motherfucker that started the whole mess. Hearts has half a mind to let him.

“You’re the one that blows it,” Hearts grunts, getting a knife in the arm halfway through. It’s barely a nick, but it’s still a little premature. “Then - fucking hell, Spades - then you do whatever you do after you blow it up.”

“He enters the room through the hole in the wall,” from Diamonds, who is on the other side of the _fucking_ table, and Spades splits off to round it the other way, so Hearts has to follow his scampery little legs. None of them are running yet, there’s no haste to it, but when the speed starts building none of them know how to fucking slow down. “Then he shoots whatever’s in there.”

“I shoot the money?”

“No, you dimwitted little shit, you shoot the people,” Spades snaps, punctuated by a knifepoint swipe through the air. That has some real speed, but stabs don’t count. Everybody knows that. “If anyone’s alive, you shoot ‘em so they’re dead.”

“What if they surrender?”

“They won’t.” Diamonds sidesteps around Clubs, who cranes his neck to follow the movement, little hands clasped in his little lap. Cute thing, he is. Hearts has that same resentful half of his mind pipe up and say he should just grab Clubs and go home for a good time instead of getting stabbed eighteen times and having to stick around for patchup duty. “The Felt are good at ensuring loyalty. Not as good as us, but still good. And there’s been a leak already - they probably know we’re coming.”

“Next week, though.”

“We’re going tomorrow, Deuce,” Diamonds says, and his next shuffle is quick, a clear dodge instead of casual avoidance. They’re on the uphill now. Hearts’ fingers slip right through the air where Spades’ greasy coat was a minute ago (damn thing does need a wash, as much as he hates to admit Diamonds being right about anything) as the guy lunges for it. 

Hearts swears under his breath and stops chasing, staying where he is, his hands half-raised in the air. He’s guarding this half of the table. They come over here, they’re gonna get snatched, the both of ‘em, and he doesn’t care if Diamonds’ pansy zootsuit gets some goddamn wrinkles. 

Diamonds knows that, too, so he switches direction, but Spades rounded the corner and slipped past Clubs to cut him off, and now it’s really starting.

Clubs scrambles in his chair, turning to get on his knees and watch the struggle. His claws curl over the back of the chair. He’s the only one who sits for these - he can’t see the table standing. “But we said that it’d be next week.”

“We _leaked_ that so that they’d _think_ we were gonna knock over the casino next week - stand still so I can fucking stab you!”

“I would prefer not to,” says Diamonds, who is immediately stabbed. “Fuck.”

It’s always interesting how only the littlest bit of emotion gets into Diamonds’ voice, even when he’s stabbed. Even Spades puts a little emphasis on his swears, but when Diamonds says fuck it could just as easily have been switched out for “pudding”.

Hearts reaches for him, but Diamonds slaps his hand and then goes for Spades’ throat. Goddamn prissy bitch is gonna get all mad about his suit and then try and eat Spades’ eyes or some dumb shit. God. Now there’s a guy that needs some sense talked into him.

“You incorrigible cur,” Diamonds spits, proving Hearts’ point.

“Get him!” Clubs crows, giving no indication who is supposed to be getting who or why he’s excited.

Hearts gets stabbed in the hand reaching into the fray, and he steps between them and the wall to slap Spades’ bitch ass across the room, and he may have the patience to do this job but damn if he doesn’t get drawn right into the fight three times out of ten. He doesn’t know when Diamonds got his cuestick out, but he sure is getting ultraviolent with it, and it catches him in the aural clots. He throws an elbow in response.

Spades shrieks as Clubs jumps on his back. The guy’s hard to get off, and while Spades is throwing his tantrum, Diamonds is throwing a right hook, and they both go down in a pile. Hearts reacts to this by throwing the offending party across the room.

Spades kicks the table over, and Hearts stares straight forward as papers and blood fly everywhere and a pen hits him in the browplate.

Yeah, about what he expected, honestly.


	5. "Diamonds" In the Rough

Diamonds Droog only hisses a little as Hearts pinches his browplate together to administer the slightest bit of medical tape. Two crossways applications does it, and Hearts sits back, tonguing the split in his lower jaw.

“Should be fine if you stop pickin’ fights,” he says, teeth pink with blood. Diamonds just barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Of course, you never will stop pickin’ every fight that walks up to you, so at least try to win ‘em.”

“I always do,” Droog says coolly, his brow lowering to add a little grimace to his glare. It’s only a dull throb. Nothing that he can’t handle. His split arm is another story, but it’s wrapped well, and it only hurts when he twists his wrists. He’ll just have to make Slick open the door for him.

Oh, Slick will _hate_ that. He’ll have to do it as much as possible.

“Like I didn’t kick your ass just before this job,” Slick sneers from the other side of the bathroom, where he’s scrubbing ash off his faceplate. If you stand too close to a phosphorus explosion, Deuce told him once, you’ll get ash in your plates. Droog listened, but it appears Slick missed that particular lesson. He should be docked participation points.

Slick crams a brush in his mouth and keeps talking for some unknown reason. He could just _wait_ , it’s not like it’ll be in there long. Barely thirty seconds. Fifteen, for Slick. Sixteen, if he’s feeling generous or wants to get up to something. He says something utterly unintelligible as foam builds on his fangs.

Droog still hasn’t managed to teach him proper dental hygiene, but he hasn’t the energy to start now. He does give a rather pointed sigh, though. Maybe Slick’ll pick up on it.

He doesn’t.

“He said you got hurt because you’re not very smart,” says Deuce, sitting on the counter. Slick tries to elbow him, but misses, due to his completely absent depth perception. 

“Did he,” Droog doesn’t ask, and moves to get up. Hearts almost growls at him, hand going tight on his good wrist.

Droog gives him a surprised little look, but, as he is Diamonds fucking Droog, it consists mostly of a raised browplate. Maybe a millimeter of movement, any more would be wasted. Hearts glowers in response.

“I’m not done with you,” he says.

Droog sits. Not because Hearts threatened him, but because it’ll just waste time later if he has to go back and get doctored up that little bit more. Once he gets it all over with, he can pay Slick back.

While he was distracted, Slick has thunked Deuce with the back side of his toothbrush, and he’s gotten foam all over the hat. Deuce is - jesus christ.

“Just throw that away. It’s ruined, that’s disgusting.”

“I could just wash it off,” Deuce says, like he’s pointing something out, despite the fact he’s being absolutely fucking ridiculous. “It wouldn’t take much.”

The stain will never leave that fabric. Every time Droog looks at it, he’s going to remember Slick’s terrible dental hygiene, and the fact that he’s willingly chosen to kiss that mouth.

“Toss it or I’m burning it while it’s still on your head. I absolutely refuse to be around it.”

“Pansy,” Slick sniffs. Droog ignores him. Generally, he always ignores him.

Thankfully, Deuce has the sense to listen to him, and tosses the hat in the toilet. Well. Droog didn’t expect him to have _much_ sense. Just enough to listen, really.

Spades spits into the sink and gargles water. He hates the minty taste in his mouth, for one unknown reason or another. Droog, personally, loves mint. It makes him feel quite clean. Of course Slick would dislike that, the nasty bastard.

Boxcars, more perceptive than he looks, digs his fingers into Droog’s side as punishment. Droog makes a choked, quiet noise, for reasons he won’t even give a moment’s thought. Fucking cunt just had to get handsy. Hands as big as his, Droog supposes it’s inevitable.

“Y’hurt more?” Boxcars asks, and gets to trying to undo Droog’s shirt. He would really rather that didn’t happen. He isn’t even hurt much, just got knocked around a bit by an explosion and an errant elbow from Quarters. He’s lucky it wasn’t the butt of his gun, or they’d be patching up much different holes. “Goddamn, Diamonds. You’d think you’d have the sense to tell me where you’re fucking hurt before I have to track it down by eyes. Until I get me a Diamonds-special looking glass for all the blood that’s yours, I can’t tell unless you tell me, and don’t you go calling me a nag, neither. If you’d do it yourself I’d let you do it yourself.”

This isn’t true, of course. Hearts would bitch about him not doing it right. Droog has an inclination towards thinking he just likes to take care of a guy, and that matches the rest of him just fine, so he’ll put a pin in it and think on it more later.

“It’s like cats,” says Deuce, chipper.

“That doesn’t make any damn sense, Clubs,” Slick bitches, because Slick always bitches. The mirror shows off the hint of teeth he gives Deuce, likely meant to be hidden from the other two. Not enough of a snarl to be called one, but it’s in the same family. Half-brothers, perhaps.

“Cats are predators, but they’re small enough to be prey,” Deuce says, and Droog does his best to tune him out as he scrabbles to make Hearts stop pulling on tiny buttons he’s going to pop off any second now. “So they have to hide when they’re hurt or they’ll die.”

“Bullshit,” Slick snaps. “Cats don’t do that.”

“I read it in a book once.”

“You don’t read.”

“He can read just fine, and he does so plenty.” Droog always has to correct Slick. Honestly, it shouldn’t be this difficult. “Can read the cover of that swill you carry around, too.”

Slick gets defensive and says something, and Deuce stays perfectly content and chirps something else, and Hearts snaps at both of them. Droog hears none of it. He’s too busy staying perfectly, perfectly still, because Hearts has his big, warm hands on Droog’s sides, and they twitch when he talks, the rounded bottom of his fingers tracing over the separation between plates.

Droog doesn’t know if Deuce is right about the cats. He doesn’t care, really. Animals aren’t his thing. But he figures it would make sense to hide a weak spot, just like he’s been doing the whole of his life. It’s not only dangerous, showing off vulnerability that can be taken advantage of - it’s embarrassing. He doesn’t want to be thought of as the weak one. He’d prefer if none of the Crew was, but if it has to be somebody, it sure as hell isn’t going to be him.

Droog has a lot to answer for, and a lot to live up to. A droog is a greenhorn, after all - a less experienced member, a junior associate, but none of those apply to Droog. He’s just the youngest. Popped out of the tank late. It’s not something most carapacians are sensitive about, and he’s not, but it does come to mind every so often. He has a reputation, now, as a sharp, violent son of a bitch who’ll kill you as soon as look at you. That kind of man can’t have a weak spot.

This is all a very roundabout way of acknowledging that Diamonds Droog has a great variety of incredibly weak spots, because a gentle touch along the edge of a plate will send him into a fit of giggles.

No one can ever know.

But Boxcars is taking his time exploring Droog’s sides, and he doesn’t want to admit it, but the gentle touches that would at some times be intimate are instead extremely tickly, and Droog is having to use every modicum of restraint that’s packed into his slim body to keep from bursting into laughter. 

Oh if only it would stop. He’d love for it to stop. Droog’s jaw locks and he closes his eyes, doing his best to keep his breathing slow and even. Unnoticeable.

“The fuck’s up with Diamonds?”

Goddamn Slick to hell.

He doesn’t open an eye, but the tension in the air means the squabble has ended. It’s been replaced by a long silence where everyone stares at him, and while he would generally enjoy that, now is not the fucking time.

At least Boxcars stopped moving his hands. He lets out a low breath, and opens both eyes. It takes no time at all to think of a cover story. He’s quite a good liar.

“I’ve lost my patience with this,” he explains, simple and to the point. His voice is no longer strained. Nothing to worry about. “I think I’ll be taking my hngrk -”

Hearts curls his fat fucking fingers right against his side and Diamonds nearly chokes on his words. He does choke, but he stops talking quick enough to keep his words in his voicebox where they belong. 

The gazes of the Crew don’t leave him for a moment. Hearts Boxcars, bastard that he is, does it again.

“St _op_ that,” Droog snaps, but it lacks any real bite - more of a bubbly sound than anything. Slick pads over with clear interest in his eyes, circling around behind Droog, sharklike. 

Deuce giggles, and he half-falls, half-hops off the counter to bounce over himself, reaching to hold Droog’s hand when he gets over. Droog yanks away, but Deuce manages to grab him next time, and just like that, he’s boxed in. trapped here. He isn’t threatened, but he’s sure as shit stuck.

He needs an escape route. He’s a very clever man, with very sharp eyes, but he doesn’t find one. Hell is real.

“What was that,” Boxcars asks, slowly. He doesn’t have to ask. Boxcars _knows_ , but he’s asking, because he wants verification.

“He’s not hurt.” Slick, fucking genius.

“I noticed that. I thought he was, but there ain’t a scratch on his sides.” When Boxcars turns his wrist, the tips of his talons hooking in the separation between plates, Droog has to choke back a wheeze.

It’s Deuce that says it. Fucking Deuce.

“I think he’s ticklish,” the little man chirps, pulling Droog’s hand so he has to tilt to the side a little. Droog allows it, pliant, in a way. He’s trying his best to shrivel up and die. This is mortifying, surely. He’ll never be looked at the same again. He has to kill everyone here.

He hasn’t the words to disagree. Droog is well and truly fucked on this one. Boxcars barely moves his hands and Droog _squeaks_. He smacks Boxcars’ wrist as he pulls away, too, but the deed is done. Boxcars narrows his eyes at him - no doubt wondering how he missed it, when he’s let Boxcars touch him as he pleases since they started trying out piles and gossip together. (Not literally. It’s an expression, Droog has no use for piles.)

The three of them move like a well-oiled machine, leaping at action like a group of predators setting upon a fallen doe, but Droog hasn’t the hooves to protect himself. Boxcars gets his hands around his waist, Deuce grabs for his arms, and Slick gets at his sides, taking the lead on fucking him over as he always does.

Droog gasps, and finally, finally, a laugh burbles out of him, because of course it was Slick who found the sweetest spot right at the intersection of the plating of his thorax and abdomen. 

“Does this count as a win?” Slick asks, and Droog laughs a little harder when it clicks that they’ve been playing the goddamn game this whole time.

“Dunno,” Boxcars says, traitor that he is. “This feels like cheating.”

“Sto-o-o-oppppp,” Droog whimpers, nearly convulsing. The last shreds of his self-control snap as he barks out hoarse, choked laughs, trying to shove away from the Crew that’s surrounded him. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

It’s the most fun he’s had in months.

Slick pretends to think about it, and then he says, “No,” curling the sharp tips of his claws into the nooks of shell under Droog’s arm. He gives a very un-mobster shriek.

“We could make it a different game!” Deuce suggests. Traitors, the lot of them. They’re all treasonous scoundrels. When he can get up again, and his sides stop splitting themselves, he’ll tear them to ribbons. When he actually tries to say that, all that comes out is childish giggling, with the occasional gasping shout. “Where you have to get in under his guard. Like limbo.”

“That’s not what limbo is,” Boxcars says, but for all his confusion he doesn’t let go of Droog’s hips, which are twisting side to side as he tries to kick him in the stomach. Fruitless efforts. He’s pinned.

“Yeah, limbo’s where you go under a stick,” Slick says, “and this is where you pin down Diamonds and make him fucking listen to you.”

“Also not what’s happening,” Boxcars points out, but whatever he clarifies afterward, Droog can’t hear over his own laughter. He manages to kick Boxcars in the chest, but then Deuce sits on him and he loses all ability to. He’s not as strong as their muscle, by design, and there’s no way he can fight off the whole Crew at once. Especially now that they’ve found his weak spot.

He’s at their mercy, thoroughly and utterly. And they are delighted with it.

Bastards.


End file.
